


Act 3: I'll Walk Alone

by thesecondseal



Series: More Than Smoke: A Noir AU [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Noir, Angst, Blood and Injury, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Break Up, Developing Relationship, F/M, Film Noir, Kissing, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Sparring, Undecided Relationship(s), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecondseal/pseuds/thesecondseal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen and Essa return to Kirkwall tentatively smitten, but secrets have a way of coming home and dragging the past along with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Undercard

**Author's Note:**

> Undercard: the list of less important bouts on the same bill as a main boxing match.  
> Sunken ship: a relationship that is firmly and decidedly no longer floating. It's in the past. (but I am on it, with my scuba gear).
> 
> Essa finds out one of Cullen's secrets. She's...well...not happy is putting it mildly. But look! There's Garrett Hawke.
> 
> (combines three shorts from tumblr: Temper, Punch Drunk, & Undercard)

“This isn’t usually your part of town.”

Garrett’s gaze lingered on the last lonely swallow of bitters and bourbon at the bottom of his glass. He didn’t need to look up to know she was there. The familiar scents of wood smoke and bee balm teased past his cheek bringing with them memories of bare skin striped in Saturday night shadows and Sunday morning light.

“The Tourney is four blocks over, Hawke,” Essa sounded bored; that meant she was angry. “It’s the same part of town.”

She hitched up onto the stool beside him and he passed her what was left of his drink, signaled Corff for another round for both of them.

“What do you need?” Essa only showed up at the Hanged Man for birthdays unless she needed something.

She knocked back the liquor with a grimace. “You and Fin and that blighted bourbon.”

Corff laughed, pulled down a bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind the bar.

“You’re a good man,” Essa called as the bartender poured whiskey in with the citrus bitters in her glass.

“You’re too easily bribed,” Corff chuckled, clunking their drinks down on the bar. Essa thanked him with a coin.

“What do you need?” Garrett asked again.

She sipped her cocktail, sighed once over the rim of the glass and stared into the wall of dusty mirrors behind the bar.

“I need you to get me back into the ring,” she said, shoulders shifting restlessly beneath her jacket. “Tomorrow. Yesterday.”

“That bad?” he reached out with an index finger, touched the back of her hand.

Essa jumped, spirits sloshing too close to the edge of her glass as she scowled at him. It was all the answer he needed.

“I can probably get you in down at Ricky’s tomorrow night,” he said, taking a sip. “If you want, I’ve time for a few rounds tonight.”

She wouldn’t want his pity and that she didn’t shoot him down immediately was testament to how far gone she was.

“What’s eating you, Trevelyan?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t need a girlfriend,” she muttered, wasting too fine an old-fashioned on an angry gulp. “I need you to beat me into the mats. Can you do that?”

He caught her chin in his hand, watched fire spark blue in the wide grey mirrors of her eyes.

“I can.”

He murmured the promise against her lips and she kissed back, all fury and fight, teeth and tongue tasting like whisky and orange and aggression. He drew back and she leaned toward him.

“Or I can take you upstairs and the only one who’ll get hurt is me.”

“I need the bruises,” she argued.

Garrett smiled against her surly mouth. “There used to be plenty of bruises,” he reminded her.

She shoved at his chest with both hands and for a moment he remembered how much smaller she was than him. Garrett let go, sat back on his stool, and reached for his glass.

“Lady’s choice,” he said.

*

"There are better ways of doing what you’re doing,” a lazy voice offered helpfully from the side of the ring.

Essa lay flat on the mat, sweaty, bloody, bruised, and thankful that it was cold enough in the gym that the smoke rising from her body and breath could be mistaken for steam.

“Tried them,” she muttered loudly toward the faraway ceiling, steel beams and empty space catching her voice, bouncing it toward the dirty skylights. “Takes a lot longer to get me to this.”

“Has to be more pleasurable time spent,” her unseen companion drawled.

Maybe. And if she could have gone a few naked rounds with Garrett without seeing a pair of tawny eyes every time she closed hers, then she wouldn’t be limping tomorrow. Well, probably not. Sometimes there had still been limping.

“You’re either a friend of Hawke’s,” she said, waggling the crimped fingers of her left hand toward the far side of the fight ring. “At which point my condolences. Or you’re Ricky’s new muscle, at which point, memorize this pitiful face. You’ll being seeing me around.”

There was laughter, low and honest enough that she was tempted to loll her aching head toward the sound to see what manner of man it boasted.

“More of the second than the first.” Garrett chuckled as he rejoined them. “Water, Trevelyan?”

“With sugar on top,” she said, eyes falling shut.

“Tease.”

The pail of water hit her in cold deluge, centered on her chest and face. Essa bit back a squeal, teeth gritted to maintain her stoicism. For the first time in days, her temper lay quiet, embers banked beneath the cold and the wet and no small amount of pain.

“You’re not a bad sort, Garrett Hawke.”

He laughed, and she cracked one eye open to see him standing over her, dark eyes sparkling beneath a dripping mop of black hair, a broad grin on his busted face. At least she had given nearly as good as she got.

“You always get sappy when you’re punch drunk.”  He dropped a heavy terry cloth robe down over her wet tank top and shorts. “I won’t let it go to my head.”

“Everything goes to your head,” Essa retorted, sliding her arms into familiar sleeves. How many times had he beaten the fire out of her temper? She groaned as she rolled up to sit, bruised ribs dissenting. It had been easier once. When he scraped her off the mat, took her to showers, then bundled her gently into his bed.  “Next time I think I’ll take the other option.”

He reached down, caught her by one elbow and hauled her to her feet.

“You won’t,” he said, belting the robe around her waist, big hands moving with an impersonal efficiency she couldn’t fault.  She wobbled a little on her feet as he spun her toward the ropes and Ricky’s new muscle.

“Essa Trevelyan,” Garrett said. “The Iron Bull. Newly contracted to clean up Ricky’s security.”

“Meaning I’m firing everyone and restaffing with my boys,” the Qunari replied.

He was big, bigger than his voice, and Essa had already guessed he towered over Garrett just from that, grey skin, grey eye, silver patch over whatever had once happened to the other. He looked tough, if she were the type to judge books by their covers; she wasn’t.  

“I’ll be interested in seeing what you do,” Essa said, reaching up to slick her hair back from her face. Poor security was one of a handful of reasons she had stopped fighting for Ricky.

“”You want on the books tomorrow?” Garrett asked.

“Nah,” she shrugged, winced happily. “I think I can wait for the weekend. Tell Ricky to get me someone new. That new welterweight from Starkhaven will do. I heard she’s in town looking to make a name for herself.”

Garrett shook his head. “You’re not that heavy lately, Trevelyan. Lost too much muscle to those curves of yours.”

The Iron Bull smirked. “They’re nice curves,” he offered.

“Thanks,” Essa smiled. She elbowed Garrett. “And I still have enough heat behind my knuckles.”

“I took you apart in fifteen minutes” he said flatly.

“You did,” she sighed. Fifteen glorious minutes. “But I was distracted.”

“You gonna be less distracted in three days,” Bull asked curiously.

Essa barked a laugh, pressed her hand to her ribs as they protested the depth of breath required by her mirth.

“Maybe.” She glared at both of them. “Fine, lightweight. I’ll be in tomorrow night to hit the bags.”

“Really? You’re barely on your feet now.”  The Iron Bull did not appear impressed nor sound convinced.

“I’m a fast healer,” she returned dryly.  Not that she felt that way at present.  She wavered on her feet and Garret scooped her up into his arms amid furious protest. “I can walk, Hawke.”

“Look at it as payment for services rendered then, Trevelyan.”

He crossed the mat in four dizzying strides. Essa dropped her swimming head to his shoulder as the Iron Bull held apart the ropes for them. Garrett dropped to the floor below and Essa grudgingly admitted his lightness of step was marginally less painful than it would have been for her to stumble down on her own.

“See you tomorrow, Bull,” she called as Garrett headed for the locker room.

“Looking forward to it.”

*

“You finally gonna tell me what brought all this on?” Garrett asked.

Essa leaned against the shower wall, eyes closed, warm water running in slow sluices down her battered body. She touched one finger to the corner of her mouth gingerly.

“Do you think it needs stitching?”

“Probably,” Garrett sighed and she felt his fingers, a contrast of gentle grip and rough, calloused skin as they closed around her chin. “This will help.”

He gave her only a second to register the smooth curve of glass against her lip and then the elfroot tonic poured healing and green down her throat.

“Better?” He was smirking when she came up swinging threats and curses in Andraste’s name, eyes blinking owlishly in the low light.

“Yes, better,” Essa grumbled, reaching up to rub her eyes. Garrett caught her wrist before the habitual gesture caused her further pain.  “Thanks.”

His hand slid slowly from her wrist and she pushed off of the wall, legs still trembling, head still spinning like a mirror ball. Garrett kept careful hold of her arm. There was nothing but concern in his gaze and before she could stop herself, Essa placed her palm over his cheek.

“Dammit, Hawke, I forget what you can do to a woman when you aren’t trying.”

He covered her hand with his, eyes dark and teasing. “Who said I’m not trying?”

He was going to kiss her, and Maker forgive her, she was going to let him. She shouldn’t have kissed him at the Hanged Man. She damn sure wasn’t contemplating kissing him now, much less remembering the easy way aggression rebounded between them until there was nothing but battle fury and cold conquest and good honest lust. His nose slid against hers, bringing sparks of pain amid the simple pleasure and Essa’s eyes fell shut again.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” he said into the space between their lips.

A whisper, too gentle, too sweet. Every reason she had put a stop to their affair.

“Someone betrayed me.” She reached for his robe, pulled it on over her wet body, trying to ignore the scents of cedar and gun oil and mint that clung to everything that was his. She had woken up too many mornings to those same washes across her skin.

“You want me to kill them?” he offered.

Essa smiled. Sometimes she really wished Garrett Hawke was home.

“No, it’s not even true. You know how I feel about secrets…”

He wrapped a towel around her hair, began gently squeezing water from the ends. “I told you a long time ago, you came to the wrong town, Trevelyan.”

“Wouldn’t be here if I had another option.”

He said nothing; he was one of two people who knew the weight of that particular truth.

“Tell me about this traitor,” he cajoled instead, strong fingers rubbing bliss against her scalp as he finished drying her hair.

Essa bit back a moan. “Yeah, now you’re definitely trying.” She yanked the towel from his hands with huff, smile lighting her eyes. “It’s stupid,” she admitted, drying her hands. “Everyone has secrets, I don’t know why I expected him not to.”

“That sounds like the kind of ‘him’ who needs his legs broken.”

He sounded far too casual and Essa couldn’t help grinning. “You jealous or protective?”

She lurched away from him, weaving through dusty moonlight and concrete shadows toward her locker. Garrett followed close, hand at the ready if she should falter.

“You know I’m not the jealous type.” He leaned against the end of the locker unit while she stared at her clothes, too tired yet to tackle the task of dressing. “Though I can be.”

He smiled, the crack she had left on his bottom lip pulling open again. He caught a drop of blood with his tongue and Essa shoved back another memory.

“You just didn’t want me to be.”

“No.” She handed him her towel, nodded toward his bleeding lip. “I didn’t.”

Essa slid his robe from her shoulders, wondered how much of her injuries he could see in the low light.

“You’re not going home looking like that,” he decided, confirming her fears. “Damn, woman, why’d you let me beat you that hard?”

“Needed it.” She grimaced. “And the Maker bless you for being tough enough to do it.”

She reached for her trousers, staggered onto one foot in order to pull them on the other leg. “I…haven’t been this angry in a long time. I let him get under my skin.”

Garrett caught her elbow, stabilized her lean so that she could swap legs. “I should have known better, Hawke.”

“Another woman?” he asked as she reached for her blouse.

He made no illusions that he was staring as she slid the silk over her aching arms, began the slow fumble of buttoning it closed. She was too bruised for undergarments, and she knew that he would make good on his threat; she wouldn’t be going far tonight.

“No.”

“Another man?”

“No.” Essa snorted.

He made a low, dangerous noise, something between a growl of disapproval and a rumble of certainty.

“Another life then.”

“Third times the charm.” And she had been a blighted fool to think he was cleaner than the rest of them.

“And does he know about yours?”

Essa scowled.

“That’s what I thought. Sit,” Garrett pointed to the bench behind her. “We’ll be here all night at this rate.”

He started with her socks and boots, finished with her sweater and coat, all with the same platonic care he might have shown his sister. He was a good man, no matter his vociferous and demonstrative protests to the contrary.

“I’m not,” he murmured, and she realized that she had uttered the platitude aloud. He slid her undergarments into the trench’s inner pocket with a leer that managed to be charming.

“Now drink,” he ordered, handing her a bottle of water while he dressed himself. “You hungry?”

“I will be by the time we get to your place,” she admitted.

“I have eggs and ham,” he said. “Maybe some cheese. Wine if we’re lucky, though we can always order from downstairs.”

“Spare me that gossip please.”

He laughed. “They’ve been gossiping since we left earlier and you know it.” He lifted her to her feet. “Beth sees you like this, she’ll set my rooms on fire.”

“My mutilation is to my advantage then.” Essa yawned. “Fuck, Hawke, you’re a miracle worker. I haven’t slept in two days.”

“You’ll sleep tonight.” He lifted her too easily and her cheek nestled too close to his heart. “I’ll keep watch.”

 


	2. Upstart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upstart (boxing): A new fighter with potential.
> 
> Essa and Garrett have a lovely breakfast before he decides to bash Cullen’s face in. oh! And we meet Cassandra! And Isabela!

They said it couldn’t rain all the time, but Garrett had noticed far too little sunshine of late. Thunder rumbled through the cool, grey dawn a low threat over the sea. Salt brined the air, sharp and pungent, the scents of the harbor pushing into town on the forward crest of an angry wind. Storm season was upon them and he could think of no more appropriate start than waking to Essa in his bed.

She had always slept quietly, and even now that he had lost count to the number of times he had seen her so unguarded, he still couldn’t get over so much ruthless energy at rest. She slept as if she had never made an enemy, bare back exposed to the ladder of weak sunlight that filtered through his open blinds. Her arms were beneath her pillow, and maybe at home she kept her gun there, but she had come to him unarmed last night. That was another conversation they were going to have to have once she awoke.

He hadn’t bothered turning on any of the lights, hadn’t wanted to wake her that abruptly.  Instead, Garrett stood at the stove, ham and eggs already sizzling, coffee percolating on the chipped formica counter beside him. It wouldn’t be long before the scents wafted across the suite to tease her awake. She would wake with a stretch and a lover’s sigh before rolling to face the kitchen, face soft and sweet, declarations of adoration mumbled before she opened her eyes.

The woman really had no business in Kirkwall. He had been telling her that for years now.

“Hawke?” He was plating eggs when her voice drifted through the dim morning light. “Maker’s breath, I would worship at your feet if I didn’t think your ego would explode like a zeppelin.”

“Any time you want,” he returned cheerfully, not bothering to look up. “I recall you did good work from your knees.”

Essa groaned, cracked open one eye and glared at him. “It is too early for me to give you the punch in the mouth you deserve for that one. Be a good boy and leave me to my afterglow through breakfast?”

“I’ll try.  But damn, woman.” He grinned. “You can’t fault me for reminiscing.”

“I could,” she retorted, rolling up slowly. She shoved at the cloud of her dark hair, fingers scraping the shoulder-length locks into some sort of order. “But I owe you for last night, and this does bring back a lot of memories.”

“Good ones?” he asked, bringing their plates to the bed.

She smiled, a cautious wing of her busted lips shading her eyes with smoke. “Yeah, good ones.” She took the plates from him and he crossed back to the small kitchenette for their coffee. “Hawke…”

Regret sang on the edges of his name and he shook his head.

“It’s alright, Essa.” He pulled down two mugs from the shelf by the sink, a white ceramic and a black enameled steel that burned his hands every time he tried to use it. “I’m hardly pining for you. I just…I still wonder why you backed off. We had a good thing going.”

“We did,” she agreed. “When I didn’t realize I like you too damn much.”

Well that was new. When she had first ended things between them it had been after a particularly spectacular disagreement. He had assumed she had gotten tired of the fighting. Flames like theirs burned bright, but he hadn’t expected them to sustain the fire. Especially when most of what they were about was extinguishing it.

“You liked me too much to keep fucking me,” he mused, returning to where she sat, tangled in a nest of his sheets, unconcerned with her nakedness. “I can’t say that’s one I’ve heard.”

Essa chuckled ruefully. “Believe me, it took me by surprise too.” She balanced her plate on her leg, reached for the black mug and cradled it against her palm “Thank you.”

She gave him back his breakfast. Garret sighed.

“Fuck me.” He stared down at his plate in exaggerated melancholy. “Does this mean we’re friends now?”

“If I don’t fuck you,” Essa returned with a leer over the rim of her coffee. “I think so.”

She affected a similar glower of disapproval. “Don’t you dare tell Beth.”

“Not on pain of death,” he replied hastily, stabbing his fork into a piece of ham. They ate in silence for a moment. “I suppose this isn't the worst news to wake up to on a Tuesday. How are you feeling?”

He took a swallow of coffee, stared over her shoulder at the raindrops pooling on the window sill.

“Better, thanks to you.” She pulled a pillow across her lap, used it to rest her plate so that she could hold her mug with both hands as she talked. “I had been doing alright since I—since we…”

Since she quit fighting. Since they stopped wearing her temper out on the mats, or any other available relatively flat surface between the gym and the Hanged Man. Garrett grinned.

“Hawke…” Her voice was sharp with warning.

“Sorry, Trevelyan.” He wasn’t sorry at all. “But they’re good memories.”

She laughed. “Too good sometimes,” she admitted. She hid a grin behind her mug and took of sip of her coffee.

“Anyway,” she continued determinedly. “The gym was working, work was helping, but lately I’m too high strung. And then this…”

She ran one hand through her hair in frustration. “This guy comes along and…”

She glanced around and Garrett thought she might have been looking for something else to hit already.

“Essa?”

“What?” she snapped.

Garrett leaned over and kissed her. It could have been a chaste peck, should have been, but they were too familiar with the easy intimacy and they both lingered over the distraction of it until she shoved lightly at his chest.

“This guy?” He leaned back, bottom lip caught between his teeth in a smirk of satisfaction. “He shut you up that well?”

She grabbed her fork and poked him in leg. Garrett feigned a howl of pain and she laughed, but not before he saw the truth in her gaze.

“Oh, Trevelyan.” He shook his head in sympathy. “You are in deep.”

She sighed. “You’ve no idea.”

“You came to me yesterday without your guns,” he retorted. “I have a little idea. You gonna tell me why you’re walking around Kirkwall unarmed?”

“We both know I don’t need them.” Her jaw tensed, chin coming forward in a stubborn jut.

“We do,” he agreed. “But you’re safer shooting someone in this town and you know it. Where are your guns?”

“At the apartment,” she huffed. “I was cleaning them when…”

She started to her feet, and they both grabbed her plate before it spilled.

“Finish your breakfast before it gets cold. I slaved over those eggs.”

He knew she would be pacing around his rooms in a fury if he didn’t stop her. Essa glared at him, but she sat back down, righting pillow and sheets and plate, before shoveling food into her mouth with annoyed economy.

“So,” he leaned past her, placed his empty plate on the nightstand. “You were cleaning your guns when you finally lost your temper over this information you don't like. And I mean you really don’t like.”

Essa nodded.

“Did he tell you himself?” Garrett asked.

Another nod. "Most of it anyway. A few days ago." So the guy either had some integrity, or Essa had leverage on him. "I've been stewing."

“And you stormed straight to me?” He was guessing the former or she wouldn’t be so riled.

“It was that or find him and kill him.”

Garrett nodded, wondering what in Thedas could have made her that angry. She worried about her temper, but she wasn’t as short a fuse as she thought.

“Alright,” he said taking a deep breath. “Who is this guy?”

For a moment, she looked as if she might refuse to tell him, and she certainly had the right, but Essa’s stubbornness fled quickly. She glanced away, but not before he saw that she needed a friend more than either of them had realized.

“Last goon Merdrat hired before the fires.” Essa set her plate aside, appetite clearly gone. “Ex-templar.”

*

“That son of a bitch,” Garrett muttered, thrusting his coffee cup into Essa’s hasty grab. He leapt up from the bed, storming across his room, bare feet slapping furiously at the hardwood floor.  He turned back to her, broad chest rising and falling in breaths of temper.

“Rutherford?!” he shouted in disbelief. “Cullen Rutherford.”

“Uh…yes.” Essa blinked at him, surprised at his sudden, all-consuming anger. “Do you know him?”

His glare pieced the heavy morning shadows, a brighter darkness,  and twice as deadly as a Kirkwall Saturday night. “I will kill him,” he vowed softly. Too softly.

He headed for the door without further explanation and Essa scrambled after him, dropping their breakfast dishes on the counter with a clatter as she passed.

“Where are you going?” she called as he yanked open the door to his suite.

“Downstairs,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He repeated, “To kill a templar.”

He left his shoulder holster on the coat peg by the door, but Garrett Hawke didn’t need a gun to kill a man. Nor her patience. Essa scowled. It was a blighted shame that he was rapidly undoing all of his good work from the night before.

“That’s ex-templar!” she shouted after him.

She clapped a hand over her mouth the moment the words left her lips. She didn’t think it was a secret—no, his secrets were much worse and more well-kept—but she didn’t make a habit of shouting anyone’s business for all to hear.

“I don’t care,” Garrett shouted back.

At least the Hanged Man was quiet in the mornings, especially during the week. Generally frequented by Hawke’s friends—most of whom lived upstairs—and a few regulars who insisted Corff made the best coffee this side of the Waking Sea. A blatant lie, that.

“Where is he?!” she heard Garrette bellow from the bottom of the stairwell.

“You are ruining my calm, Garrett Hawke!”  

Her shoes were by the ice box. She didn’t remember dropping them there, but then, Essa didn’t really remember much after he had let her fight herself out and she had fallen asleep in his arms. She shoved her feet into the heels, sore muscles pulling in blue-black aches up her calves. There was nothing for it; there might be places she would walk barefooted, but the tavern wasn’t one of them. Same went for naked. She glanced around for her clothes.

“Rutherford!”

No time for clothes. Essa didn’t know why Cullen was downstairs, but she had heard that black edge of rage in Garrett’s voice before and unless someone called Aveline, there would be blood or death before he settled down. Whatever his grudge against Cullen, it made her own anger pale and wan.

“Hawke!”

She knew he wasn’t listening, but she shouted after him anyway, casting around quickly for something to put on. There was a familiar swath of red knit on a shelf by the door. Essa pulled the sweater on over her head, arms screaming at the abuse as she staggered after him.

“Hawke!”

He didn’t stop. She hadn’t exactly expected him to. He was already halfway across the bar when she skidded down the final steps. Only a firm grip on one elbow kept her from hitting the floor.

“Good morning, my dear. Watch your step, I think we’re going to have enough blood on the floor.” There was a smoky chuckle as Essa was grasped by the biceps, held out at arms’ length. “That’s always a good look for you.”

It wasn’t the first time she had clomped downstairs in Garrett’s sweater. The thing covered more than what the cigarette girls down at Ricky’s wore, so she hardly cared.

“But that face is not,” Isabela tsked, lips falling into a dangerous pout.

“Bela, let go!” Essa hissed, craning her head around on an aching neck, trying to get her eyes on Garrett again. She didn’t have time for her concern, well-intentioned or not. “Hawke’s got—“

“Oh, I know exactly what Hawke’s got,” she returned, sparing a glance over Essa’s shoulder. “As well he should. That bloody templar do this to you?”

Dark eyes lingered on the bruises over Essa’s collarbone. She struggled to pull away and Hawke’s sweater shifted, collar falling off one shoulder to reveal further mottles of purple and black.

“He most certainly did not.” Essa snapped; Isabela’s grip tightened. “Hawke did.”

A look of resignation crossed Isabela’s beautiful face. “And you asked him to,” she sighed. “Of course you did. You two are back at that game?”

“Not the fun part,” Essa admitted. The sex Isabela approved of heartily, the beatings Essa and Hawke had so often traded so that she could sleep at night…those not so much.  

She could hear indistinct shouts from across the bar and the first sounds of a scuffle. Scrapes of furniture, chairs crashing.

“Maker’s breath! Bela, let me go before this gets out of hand.”

The pirate raised one sleek brow. “Oh, I think we’re way past that.” She turned Essa around and for one moment they both simply stared.

“Fucking Tuesdays,” was all Essa could think to say.

Garrett had one broad hand around Cullen’s throat and had—in the scant moments of Essa and Isbela’s exchange—lifted the smaller man and slammed him against the wall. The toes of his perfectly polished shoes were several inches above the floor and Garrett leaned forward, weight in his palm as the fingers of his other hand curled into a tight fist. Cullen’s face was already turning red from loss of air, but beyond the change of complexion, Essa saw only surprise in his expression. There wasn’t yet any sign of anger or fear, which just meant that the man was either a fool or had nerves of steel.  She watched as he wrapped one hand around Garrett’s wrist and then Cullen’s gaze flicked once to the right, drawing Essa’s to the woman beside them.

“Don’t move.” She was beautiful, carved from the deadliest porcelain Essa had ever seen, with short dark hair that only emphasized ego-shredding cheekbones and a sneer that Essa immediately envied. Her gun, a mat black 9mm, was leveled at Garrett’s hard head.

 Cullen pushed at Garret’s hand, managed enough air to lift his other hand in a staying motion, even as Garrett raised his fist. The safety on her gun clicked.

Silence sifted into the bar, heavier than the plaster dust still drifting down onto Garrett’s broad shoulders. He had stormed downstairs shirtless and shoeless, and that no one seemed overly concerned was testament to how often he had done so over the years. In the low light of the bar, Essa could see dozens of scars across his back. No few were probably from the nine’s brothers and sisters. There was a starburst  low on his ribs—a bullet he had taken for his brother—another larger and messier on his left shoulder blade. Below that was a long set of furrows--four of them--that curved down and around his side. She should have been thinking about anything else, but instead Essa found herself blushing. He hadn’t let her heal them. Battle scars, he had told her fondly. She should have known then. Should have realized it was only a matter of time before he took a bullet for her.

Damn fools. Both of them.

“I said, don’t move, Hawke.” The woman sounded like she meant it and her gun hand didn’t waver. Essa took in the clean lines of her navy suit, saw a shimmer of brass near the crisp white collar of her dress shirt.

 “Fucking Tuesdays,” Essa said again. “Bela?”

“Oh, I’m right behind you, sweet heart.”

Essa headed across the bar, shoes a louder stomp than usual, Isabela’s cool presence a salty saunter behind her.

“You want me to get a bucket of water?” she asked loudly. “Or should I find a hat to pass around for tips?”

Essa laughed, the sound genuine but forced a bit louder for the benefit of the idiots she and Isabela were approaching. She wasn’t going to sneak up on any of them, not with tensions and tempers running so high.

“Hawke!” She shouted for him twice before she wrapped her hands around the tension in his elbow. She put her weight in her arms, dragged at him, and he flinched beneath her grasp. When his gaze flicked to hers, it was blurred nearly black with fury.

“Let him go,” she whispered. For a moment, she had his attention. Could only hope it was enough.

“Essa?” Cullen’s voice was rough. There was barely room for air in his throat, much less the disbelief and confusion she heard in the shape of her name, but that he had dared breathe the pair of syllables seemed to remind Garrett of his ire.

“Good morning, Cullen.” What else was she to say? She reached for Garrett’s fingers, wedging hers between his grip and Cullen’s throat until he eased up a fraction.

Cullen drew a harsh breath, and didn’t waste what air he managed on Garrett.

“What happened?” The demand shivered into her fingertips and Essa curled her grip back toward Garrett’s hand, away from Cullen’s skin. His gaze switched from Hawke to her, moved like fire from one injury to the other.

 “Hawke happened to her,” Isabela laughed, pulling up a fallen chair and sitting down a mostly safe distance away.

Cullen glanced sharply between Essa and Hawke, eyes narrowed.  She knew without looking what it was he saw on Hawke’s face, and she knew it wasn’t good.

“Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist, chantry boy,” Isabela goaded him further. “This is hardly the first time.”

“Probably won’t be the last,” Hawke added and Essa heard the smirk in his voice as Cullen’s eyes flashed, bright and gold, the hottest part of the flame.

His punch landed first, catching Essa by surprise as it clocked a resounding hit to Garrett’s left eye. A smaller, less determined man would have stumbled at the impact, especially with Essa hanging on his arms, but Garrett only laughed, sneered something about having a shiner to match the one Essa had given him the night before he answered with his fist. The strike was no less effective for Essa’s interference. His arm tore from her grip, fist smashing with less precision, just missing the patrician line of Cullen’s nose. Essa had only a moment to be glad before Isabela caught her by the back of the shirt and pulled her away from the fray.

Cullen reached for the hand at his throat, got a hold of Garrett’s thumb, and did something vicious with his fingers that had Garrett’s grip spasming. He coughed once as his feet hit the floor and he shoved Garrett back a single step, muttered something too low for Essa to hear.

“Alright,” Garrett agreed magnanimously. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

He stood back, chest heaving, hands clenching into fists as Cullen removed his jacket and holster, began rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. His companion scowled at him, holstered her gun, and snatched his from him.

“Fine,” she snarled. “But if he kills you, I’m not taking him in.”

She caught up Cullen’s discarded coat, then shoved past him, kicking a broken chair out of the way as she cut a path to where Isabela sat, chair tipped back on two legs, one hand still holding the back of Garrett’s sweater. She leveled a flat stare at Essa, eyes cool and accessing.

“You’re Essa.” She did not try to hide her hostility.

“I am.” Essa would have frowned back, but she was too busy watching Cullen and Garrett behave like barbarians.

Truly lovely barbarians.

“Trevelyan,” the woman continued. “Used to box bare-knuckled down at Ricky’s. People call you the Berserker.”

Cullen and Hawke began a slow circle, taking one another’s measure as they cleared a corner of the floor. Essa reluctantly dragged her gaze from them.

“Yeah, that’s me. And you are?”

“Cassandra.” She stuck out her hand and Essa shook it. “Saw you fight a welterweight out of Starkhaven once. You’re something.”

Essa laughed. “And you’re honest. Did I win or lose that fight?”

“You won,” Cassandra said without elaboration.  

“All this,” she pointed at Essa’s face and shoulder. “Is from boxing?”

Essa nodded. “Afraid so. You want me to tell him?”

As ridiculous as it was that Cullen seemed to feel the need to defend her, it was just as stupid, Essa thought, to let him get beaten down for it. And she still didn’t know what had Garrett in a fit.

Cassandra snorted. “Let them fight it out. He deserves it for this foolishness.”

“Hawke could kill him,” Essa protested.

“Hawke won’t kill him.” Cassandra settled back against the end of the bar, Cullen’s jacket and holster draped over her folded arms.

“We should at least make them take this stupidity outside,” Essa tried. Maybe the interruption would cool both their tempers.

“In the street?” Isabela countered. “No. Hawke will pay for damages. Let them get this sorted in here with fewer eyes. All we need is Aveline having to come down.”

“What is there to get sorted?” Essa demanded. “Is there some sort of bad blood between them that I don’t know about?”

Isabela laughed, but for once there was no mirth in the sound. “Oh, yes.”

“And now there’s you,” Cassandra added.

“There is not me,” Essa gritted, but she eased back on a stool, watched the two men circle and feint and jab, slow movements meant to lead the other into a false sense of his opponent.

“Winner’s mine!” she called loudly enough that the whole bar turned her way. Essa grinned a little meanly.

Cullen—whom Essa would not have guessed to be a dirty fighter—took advantage of the distraction. Garrett barely dodged his punch; he cast a surprised glower over his shoulder at Essa.

“What?” she shrugged. “I told you you ruined my calm.”


	3. Contender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promised Essa ogling half-dressed, combative men if I reached 300 followers on tumblr and without any intentions on my part, this was the piece that was planned for that day, so I’m a little excited. I really hope it’s as much fun for you folks as it was for me to write.
> 
> oh! and we meet Bethany!

“Well,” Bethany Hawke said, voice muffled by the mug currently lifted to her face. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before those two killed each other.”

She didn’t sound nearly as concerned as she had when she first charged downstairs, dressing gown flowing out behind her like a red cape.  She had taken one look at her brother and Cullen and demanded a pot of coffee that she was now working through with a single-minded determination that did the Hawke name proud. She didn’t seem to care that fists, sweat, and blood were flying not two paces from her. She had chunked a silver dollar at Garrett’s head at one point and shouted for him to “fight pretty.”

Essa had to borrow coin from Isabela to throw her cents in.  “How did I not know about this feud?”

It was one of at least a dozen questions she had, but she was too busy appreciating the show to worry about the rest of them. She had a feeling this little spectacle was going to bring quite a few answers to light.

“You gotta admit,” Isabela sighed dreamily. “The man has beautiful arms.”

Garrett Hawke was annoyingly pretty on his worst days, but shirtless, shoeless, and with his hair and pants still sleep-rumpled…

“Yes, he does,” Essa agreed.

It was a good look for him, scruffy beard and all. One that was surpassed only when he was fighting someone quick enough to make him move, to make all those lovely muscles bunch and shift, and—Andraste preserve them—Cullen was making Garrett work.

“You can have him,” Beth mumbled into her cup. “Too burly for me even if he weren’t my brother. Now…Rutherford…”

She made an enthusiastic sound that earned her pop on the leg from Isabela. “Bite your tongue, wench. Show some loyalty.”

“Hey! I don’t have to like the pages to appreciate fine cover art,” Beth retorted pertly. She held up one hand, thumb and forefinger forming half of frame to capture Cullen. “And that is definitely a picture for nighttime study.”

Cassandra snorted, then folded her arms tightly across her chest, leaning harder against the bar as if to punish it for the shared amusement. While Isabela, Beth, and Essa threw banter loud enough for the most of the room to hear, Cullen’s friend was a study of stark disapproval. If she was having any fun, it was in spite of herself.

“The feud?” Essa repeated shortly. Her traitorous gaze had wandered to Cullen. She found herself unable to look away and was more than a little angry about it.

He was a fucking stylist. His footwork was impeccable, unhindered by the slick soles of his oxfords. She would bet a week’s pay that he had trained somewhere, even if he didn’t fight. And if he had fought—anywhere—she would have heard of him. He was the elegant foil to Garrett’s brutal grace, white dress shirt rolled up high on his forearms, suspenders shrugged from his shoulders to hang down against dark, perfectly-pressed slacks. Now that Garrett’s hand wasn’t crushing his windpipe, Cullen didn’t look to be suffering much.

Essa couldn’t help wanting him to suffer a little.

“Oh, it was years ago,” Beth shrugged. “Back when the Circles fell and all the mages went to ground.”

All the mages. Essa couldn’t decide if she should laugh or break something. She counted three mages within throwing distance and ex-templar or not, she now knew exactly how Cullen felt about mages.

“Yes,” Essa replied dryly. “Rutherford tends to deal in absolutes.”

Essa had not realized the extent of Cullen’s involvement in Kirkwall’s ugly recent past and she was not yet at the point of giving him credit for being honest with her about it. Her vision still burned too hot when she looked at him.

“Perhaps once,” Cassandra defended her friend. “But not any longer.”

It was Essa’s turn to grunt.

“You’ve had them both,” Isabela’s eyes were gimlet as she spared a glance back at Essa. “Who are you betting on?”

“I have not,” Essa sputtered too loudly. She didn’t miss Garrett’s smirk and felt the need to retaliate. “But if I were betting it would have to be on Rutherford. Garret’s getting a little shopworn and he’s probably still a little stiff from last night.”

She realized her error the moment the last words left her mouth. Essa was smiling even as Isabela waggled her brows.

“Then you didn’t do it right.”

“Even I know that,” Beth added helpfully.

“You do not,” Garrett barked.

He put some distance between him and Cullen, and Essa’s gaze narrowed. He didn’t exactly rely on brawn, but if the full extension of his punch struck Cullen from that distance, it would fell him in an instance.  Garret was an outside fighter, something the usually surprised his opponents given his size. It was one of the reasons Essa liked to spar with him. He had her in reach, made her work on her footwork, but if she could get inside he had nothing left but to grapple her down…which had been fun enough once upon a time.

“What’s this ‘even I’?” Essa retaliated. “You’re no blushing innocent, Bethany Hawke.”

For a moment, Garrett missed his footing. “Not fair, Trevelyan,” he called, correcting his step just in time to avoid a corkscrew punch.  

The twist of knuckles would have broken skin, and Garrett’s face had taken enough recent injury. Essa’s eyes narrowed. She had known Cullen was angry—he still thought that the bruises she carried were Garrett’s doing, and for the wrong reasons—but until that moment she had believed Garrett to be carrying the greater grudge.

“Watch your left, Hawke,” she called.

“You’ve chosen a side.” Winter rimmed Cassandra’s accusation.

“You will recall,” Essa returned icily. “That I called the winner?”

Cassandra nodded, but said nothing.

“Do you really think it’ll go well if I were to fight your golden boy?”

Cullen heard her, eyes flashing to her briefly in a tangle of warm colors she couldn’t read. Garrett took advantage of his distraction. The brute was deceptively quick, but Cullen seemed to have less trouble with than she did. She watched him dance back from a jab that she herself only managed to dodge about half the time. He crowded in on Garrett’s left—hadn’t she just told him?—landing a couple of body blows that he had to know were pointless.

“He won’t fight you,” Cassandra informed her.

“You underestimate Essa’s ability drive someone to violence,” Beth warned brightly, coffee finally kicking in. She crossed her legs, arranged the silk of her robe into a graceful fall and sat up straighter on her stool.

“I do not.” Was that a ghost of a smile?

“Well, that’s to your credit,” Isabela sounded almost friendly.

Essa watched as Garrett grinned, lips curling in a familiar taunt, one of a dozen insults she had heard a hundred times before. Cullen’s jab caught him squarely in the mouth.

The bar went silent. There weren’t many patrons so soon after dawn, but every breath was held. Isabela and Beth’s snarky commentary fell at their feet, and everyone watched as Garrett spat out a mouthful of blood.

“I think you chipped my tooth.”  

Garrett’s laughter boomed out along with his fist, and there was an excited cheer from one of Corff’s regular coffee crew. It came too soon. Cullen rolled with the blow, shoulder dropping in a fluid deflection. He turned his head at the last moment, but even glancing the punch had him staggering back against the wall.

“Get up, you idiot!” Cassandra snapped. She clapped one hand over her mouth and looked at surprised as the rest of them that the shout had left her lips.

Cullen offered her a fleeting smile as he pushed back himself up. A splendid bruise was already spreading across his face.

Garrett was waiting for him, but Cullen was fast. Damn near fancy. He threw as many distracting jabs as damaging punches. A dumber fighter would have already been down, but Garrett wasn’t a sucker even if he was working harder than he liked.  

Too blighted fast, Essa thought, in grim appreciation. Before this morning, she would have misjudged him in a fight. Not something that happened to her very often.

Weren’t they tired yet? Essa was tired just watching them, but then, it was too blighted early for this shit. She turned back to the bar, tapped the oak with one finger. Corff slid her a mug without looking away from the fight.

“And the cow,” she called, but the pint of milk was already on its way.

She couldn’t handle the Hanged Man’s coffee without too much sugar and cream, and she couldn’t handle a Tuesday in Kirkwall without her morning cup. She thought of the mug she had left upstairs with a bitter regret. She could say what she wanted about Garrett, but the man made a damn fine cup of coffee.  Whichever of them was left standing would have to offer recompense for her loss.

*

“I’m not fighting her again,” Garrett grunted as Cullen’s fist landed against his floating ribs.

“What?”

He could have taken advantage of the other man’s confusion, but Essa had ruined this whole thing with her challenge. “Winner’s mine!” she had shouted, and without even looking at her, he knew the exact curve of smug that twisted her still-swollen lips.

Impossible damn woman.

And then she accused him of ruining her calm! As if it were his fault that she had been cozying up to the last person in Kirkwall she should have been.

“I’m not,” Garrett repeated, pausing to answer a slick combination with a triple. He pushed Cullen back with a mean grin. “Fighting Essa.” Came in with an uppercut that he knew Cullen would dodge, and raised his arms to block a quick set of returned jabs. Garrett sidestepped at the last and felt Cullen’s knuckles split against his elbow. The hot jangle of nerves was worth it.  If he couldn’t beat the man bloody and go back to bed, there was no saving the fight. “Again.”

Garrett eased his fist, wiggled his tingling fingers as Cullen blinked at him. He hadn’t actually planned on killing him anyway, he reminded himself. He’d just wanted to make sure the man’s face was as busted as his was since it had become apparent that the not inconsiderable number of hits Garrett had taken from Essa last night should have been directed at the templar.

Ex-templar.

“You hear me that time?” Garrett asked.

Realization dawned more slowly than he would have credited him for, but then, Essa had a way of knocking even the best of them back onto the ropes.

“Well, I’m not fighting her,” Cullen muttered quickly, skipping back. Garrett’s fist grazed his shirt and he pulled the punch. “I still don’t know why I’m fighting you.”

The man had good feet. Garrett would have been impressed if he weren’t still pissed about the entire situation.

“You’re fighting me because you hurt her,” Garrett landed a mean hit to Cullen’s ribs just to make himself feel better.

“I’m not the one who beat down a woman half my size,” Cullen gritted. He lifted his chin like he expected another punch, but Garrett only chuckled.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, chantry boy, so I’ma let that one pass. Stay away from Essa.”

“Stay—!“ he was quicker with his counterpunches than his retorts. “I knew you were a barbarian, Hawke—“ He dodged a sharp cross. “But Essa makes her own decisions.”

“That’s right!” Beth shouted from the sidelines.

Garrett rolled his eyes at his sister. “You stay out of this.”

But the woman in question was suspiciously quiet and Garrett knew that meant she was listening. Too closely, probably, for all their comforts.

“And of course she does,” Garrett capitulated, crowding in close, dropping his voice so that only Cullen could hear him. “But unless you’re willing to confess all your sins to her, you admire her from a distance. Understood?”

The verbal blow landed harder than the physical ones that had come before.  For a moment they stood toe to toe, staring each other down. Cullen’s eyes never wavered, but his chin dipped once in acknowledgement. Good, Garrett had suddenly lost all desire to beat the man down.

“Just kiss!” Isabela shouted, and he made a note to buy her another hat.  

Garrett laughed, let what tension could slide away as he dropped his hands. “Kiss him if you want to, Bela. I’m through whaling on him.”

“So it’s a draw?” Beth called, voicing more than her own disbelief. “Bullshit, Garrett.”

“Bullshit nothing,” he retorted. “It’s too early for this shit.”

He waited to see if Cullen would give them both the out, or if the man’s pride would demand more blood and bruises between them. Garrett very deliberately avoided Essa’s challenging glare.

“We done?” he asked.

“Should I remind you who started this?” Cullen retorted.

“No. I’m well aware.” Garrett smirked. He raised his voice. “Trevelyan?”

“What?” She was halfway into a cup of coffee she would blame them both for.

Garrett played his hand. “You owe me.”

“Fine.” She conceded too quickly, and he knew he was going to regret his next words.

“Walk Rutherford home, get those knuckles bandaged up.”

“What?” He counted at least three voices on the single shocked syllable.

“You owe me,” he countered any argument she might throw at him.

“I—“ He heard her feet hit the floor. “Fuck you, Hawke.”

“If we’d have done that, we wouldn’t be in this mess now would we?”

Her breath hissed in sharply, and he waited for her to decide how much she would rail at him in public. Wearing nothing but his favorite sweater.

“I’m not exactly dressed,” Essa pointed out sharply.

Fucking Tuesdays, he thought.

“Here.” He watched Cassandra hold out Cullen’s coat, eyes narrowed in exasperation as she waited for Essa to slip her arms in the sleeves.  The mulish look on Essa’s face was common enough, but perhaps the most severe scowl he had ever seen.  Garrett had to look away, lips twitching with laughter that was likely to earn him another punch to the face. He glanced at Cullen.

Maybe two.

“Seeker Pentaghast, I’d like a word.” Garrett said.

“Yes,” she agreed, handing Cullen his gun and holster with unwavering annoyance before shoving him toward the door. “Several.”


	4. Caught Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught Cold (boxing): Term used to describe a fighter knocked out early in the fight who was not mentally prepared or warmed up properly.

There wasn’t much traffic yet as they made their way down Oakland Avenue. The morning was flat and grey. Rain streamed down from the corners of tattered awnings, dripping from the sky without apology or care for those who would soon be hurrying along their daily commutes. The sidewalks were mostly devoid of foot traffic, but already the delivery trucks had made a mess of the streets. The heels of Essa’s pumps echoed off of the concrete with every angry stride, each step falling in time with the Chantry bells as they tolled the hour. The distant echoes drifted down from Hightown, to summon as if from nothing the pell-mell clatter of Kirkwall’s newsboys.

It shouldn’t have surprised Cullen that Essa knew every paperboy between the Hanged Man and the Rose, or that when she had to refuse a paper for want of coin, the child grinned up at her and gave her one anyway.

“I’ll get it from you tomorrow.” The girl was missing her front teeth but didn’t yet carry the shadows of the city in her sparkling brown eyes. She tipped the narrow brim of her grey newscap at Essa. “You always pay me too much anyway.”

“I do not,” Essa argued, but she already gone, feet bearing her away in cheerful splashes beneath the somber morning. Essa shouted after her. “You have to know your worth, Nadie!”

“I do!”

“May the Mabari keep it for you,” she murmured, tucking her paper under her arm before continuing down the sidewalk.

Her guard was up, gait loose and rolling. For all that she seemed content enough to walk through the rain wearing nothing but Garrett Hawke’s sweater, Cullen’s suit jacket, and a pair of peep toe heels, she walked as though she expected a fight at any moment. She had kept her body between him and the girl, and though he couldn’t be sure if was protecting Nadie or herself, Cullen knew that he was no longer a man with whom she would share her vulnerabilities. Any such light was a long-faded yesterday, snuffed out by his demons come yet again to roost.

“Essa—“ He wasn’t certain what he planned to say, but he should have known she wouldn’t let him stumble through the words. The last time they had spoken, she had let him say too much and now she hated him.

Not that he could blame her.

“Look, Rutherford. I don’t know why I’m walking you home.” She reached up, shoved her wet hair back from her bruised face. “I don’t actually know where you live, nor do I want to, and I don’t think those knuckles are going to suffer any permanent damage. But Hawke asked and I owe him, so let’s just get you to your door and I’ll be on my way.”

He stopped in front of an imposing brownstone with four carefully maintained floors. One of the few buildings on the block with a clean face and new red awnings.The rain drummed against the waxed canvas, a rhythm that might have been cheerful in any other town. Here, even the rain sounded hopeless. Above the door was a half-moon window with a rose etched white against the clear glass.

“Here we are then,” Cullen said gruffly. “You can be on your way.”

“Here?” Essa’s voice rang high above her scowl. “You live here?”

“Third floor.” He wasn’t quite sure why that would annoy her as much as it seemed to, but if Cullen had ever thought he could read Essa, he had abandoned that

She turned her back to him, paced away so that all he could hear was the muffled rise and fall of her curses beneath the steady rain.

“How long?” she demanded, spinning back to glare at him.

“Almost a year?” Cullen frowned. “Why?”

She was angry again, though this time he didn’t think it was at him.

“I keep an apartment on the fourth.”

She brushed by him with a disgruntled sigh, stomping into the tenement without waiting to see that he followed. He wondered how many times they had missed one another in the months past and couldn’t help wondering if the Maker was looking down on them and laughing. Cullen was beginning to think their creator had a dark sense of humor.

“I’m not here that often,” Essa admitted, as if the same thought was preoccupying her climb up main staircase. “And I generally take the back stairs.”

She paused on the first floor landing, ran her hand over the carved rose finial on the banister. “You do know this place used to be a brothel? And that it was often a safehouse for apostates?”

“Yes,” Cullen said, voice deliberately mild as he trailed behind her. “The Order took control of it about forty years ago, after a series of nasty raids. You shouldn’t like it any better here than I do if that’s your implication.”

He had found the Rose’s checkered history more than a little appropriate given his own.

Essa grunted, shoved her dripping hair out of her face. “The Order hasn’t owned place for two years.” She rounded the corner and started up the next flight. “I wonder if you know who holds her now.”

He did and it might take her down a peg to learn that, but it was too early in the blighted morning for all this useless fighting. Cullen hadn’t seen her since she blew both their covers, fired him, and then kicked him out of her cottage at Seaside. The last thing he had expected this morning was to have his rather abysmal cup of coffee interrupted by Garrett Hawkes’s hand around his throat and Essa’s battered face staring at him over Hawke’s arm.

Fucking Tuesdays.

He didn’t know what had gotten into Hawke. There was enough bad blood between them for lifetimes, but they had found an uneasy truce—made easier by absence—once Cullen stood with him against Meredith.  Kirkwall was a big city. Once he left the Order, it hadn’t been difficult for Cullen to disappear without going far. Even his once a week meeting with Cassandra rarely put them in more than passing with the Champion of Kirkwall. Cullen reached up to rub the back of his neck wearily.

“This is me.” He stopped in front of his door. “You can be on your way.”

Essa’s chin jerked once at the repeated dismissal and Cullen wanted to call the words back, wanted to tug her inside his near empty apartment, offer comforts he didn’t allow himself. It was foolish, he knew. She was hardly fragile. Even battered as she was she looked more dangerous than injured.Cullen had overheard Cassandra say she was a fighter, and he believed it though he hadn’t gotten the details. He had been too busy persuading Hawke—albeit with his fists—not to beat him to death.

“Just open the door,” Essa folded her arms beneath her breasts and Cullen reminded himself that he was wasting a lot of time worrying about a woman who had just left another man’s bed. “You’re still bleeding.”

He glanced down at his hand, surprised to find that she was right.

“Do you really want to have a conversation about injuries?” he returned.

She had a black eye, a mottled bruise across one cheek, another on her jaw, and one corner of her lips was crusted over in an impressive scab. Her knuckles didn’t look much better than his, bruised to the Void, but at least they weren’t bleeding.

“No.” She shrugged out of his jacket and Hawke’s sweater drooped from her shoulder, revealing more bruises.

“Dammit, Essa, just—“ Cullen turned to unlock the deadbolt, fully expecting her to drop his jacket on the floor and walk away. “You owe me nothing. I know that. But—“

“Do you have coffee?” she asked suddenly. “And I mean real coffee. Not whatever that garbage is that Corff makes.”

“What?” He turned back to blink at her, but Essa stared past him, eyes as flat as the battleship grey paint on his door. “I can make some. It’s not as good as yours, but…”

“Well mine isn’t as good as Garrett’s, no use either of us crying over that.” She nodded once, tersely, knuckles white against dark flannel.  “Alright,” she continued, more to herself than to him. “I’ll come in.”

Cullen pushed the door open, stood back to let her enter ahead of him. She walked in slowly, hand reaching automatically for the gun she wasn’t wearing and he wondered what in the world she was doing, traipsing around Kirkwall without a weapon--or clothes. Of course she seemed more concerned about the former than the latter. He followed her inside, switching on every lamp in the sparse studio, chasing away the bleak dimness with pale yellow light.

“This...is where you live?”

He’d never had reason to feel self-conscious about his living space, but having been to Essa’s cottage, Cullen understood why she might find the apartment distasteful. He had allowed himself nothing but bare essentials, and there was nothing warm or inviting about the small space. Even as bedraggled as she was, Essa was a riot of warmth, brown hair a wild, damp tangle, freckles scattered across bronze skin. Maker’s breath, he wanted to keep her.

“It is.” Cullen closed the door behind him with a sigh, stopping to hang up his wet trench and remove his holster“There’s a towel on the bathroom door if you want to dry off.”

He grabbed a clean dishtowel from the kitchen counter.

“Don’t you dare.” Essa stopped him from pressing the cloth to his knuckles. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

He nodded toward the bathroom and she stalked past him, pausing only to toe her shoes off at the foot of his bed. Cullen stood between the small bathroom and the galley kitchen, listening as Essa rummaged around in his medicine cabinet, mumbling obscenities under her breath.

“Are you coming?” she demanded, glancing out at him expectantly. “I can’t very well bandage you up out there.”

“The last time I saw you,” he was compelled to remind her. “You told me to avoid being in close confines with you.”

“I know.” She made an inelegant noise. “And believe me, we’ll get back to that. Just...“

Her words faded, faltering hollow against black and white tile. He didn’t make her ask again. Cullen stepped into the small room, overly aware of just how close the small space forced them. There was barely floor for a bathmat turned perpendicular to the tub, but if Essa wanted him to crowd in there with her, he would oblige her.

“Sit.” She closed the toilet lid and pointed. Cullen schooled his expression into planes of careful neutrality and sat. “Hand.”

She held one of hers out without looking at him, then reached with the other to switch on the faucet. Cullen turned to the side, legs stretched beneath the sink to give them what room he could. There was no way that any of this was going to end well. He took a breath, asked what was surely the most harmless of all the questions he had burning in his head.

“How long have you and Hawke been—?“

“That question better end with ‘training or sparring’,” Essa grated, taking the dish towel from him and running one end of it under the cold water.

“I was going to say ‘friends’.”

She sighed.

“Since I first came to Kirkwall.” She took his hand, held it under the water, dabbed gently at the edges of abraded skin. “Shared interests. Save the mages. All that.”

Cullen nodded. He deserved her ire and there was nothing he would have offered in his own defense anyway.

“Those are a little heavy for sparring injuries,” he said instead.

“They are.” Essa bent over his hand, eyes narrowed, lips pursed as she scrutinized the wounds. Cullen tried--and failed--to ignore the way her sweater rose toward the tops of her thighs. “This was so that I could sleep last night.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No.” She opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed a roll of gauze. “I know you don’t.”

“You know…” Essa sighed, handed him the gauze to hold while she retrieved the scissors. “The thing about secrets, Rutherford, is that they have a nasty habit of becoming lies.”

She was still holding his hand and Cullen realized that despite the constant flow of cold water over them both, her palm was warm, nearly feverish.

“I’m not angry at you because of your past,” she told him quietly.

“What? But--”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’m angry at you because until I learned who you were, my past was simply a secret. You being who you are…well I still feel like I’m lying to you.”

Essa shook her head, scattering raindrops over his arm. “I don’t like to think of myself as a liar.”

What else could there be? Cullen thought. She had already told him that she worked with the templars. He no longer had reason to worry that she was helping Merdrat and his gang run red lyrium in and out of Kirkwall.

She balanced his wrist on the edge of the sink and released him.

“Dry that off,” she ordered, giving him the dry end of the dish cloth. She stood over him, grey eyes flat against his wounds. “Could be worse,” she muttered.

“Could it?” he asked, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about his knuckles.

For the first time since Seaside Essa met his gaze.

“By the Mabari,” she whispered, reaching out to place one shaking hand against his jaw. “I wish I had known that the last time you kissed me would be the last time.”

*

Cullen stared up at her in surprise, eyes whisky bright and twice as potent. Essa knew that was she standing too close to him, but she couldn’t bring herself to step away. His bruising face was warmer than it should have been. Garrett had gotten a couple of good licks in. Another few hours and he wouldn’t look much better than she. What a mess they were, the pair of them. It would have been funny if it weren’t so blighted sad.  

She could remember only once in her life wanting to heal someone so badly and never had she wanted kiss someone the way she did Cullen.

“Essa…” She placed her fingers against her name, felt slopes of it rise soft on his lips. She had made too many mistakes with him already, she thought, running her nails lightly over the smooth skin of his jaw trying to block the memories of their last morning together. He had shaved while she ran down to get the milk delivery from Dennet.

Essa knew she would never be able to look at her kitchen table quite the same again.

“I’m sorry.”

She pulled away, movements terse and jerky as she snagged the gauze back from him. She fumbled twice in her haste to begin wrapping his hand, could only be thankful she wasn’t trying to use the medical scissors. Those damn things were a pain on the best days. Essa bit her lip to stop its trembling.

“I am too.” His voice settled over her like balm and Essa hated them both for what he could do to her just by speaking.

“Cullen…”

His lips brushed hers and fool that she was Essa kissed him back. She still had hold of his half-bandaged hand, but he reached up, caught her behind the neck with the other. He dragged her down to him with a soft groan, fingers threading not quite roughly into the tangle of her wet hair while his lips moved over hers soft and sweet like a sad love song.

“You wouldn’t…” she managed to mumble desperately against his lips. “If you knew, you wouldn’t.”

The truth tightened in her chest, shortening her breath. She should have pulled away, but he smelled like soap and cedar and he tasted like rain.

“Maker, take us both,” she muttered blinking back stupid, useless tears. “Because I do know and I still want you.”

“What do you know?”

Cullen’s hands cupped her face, palms cool against her jawline and she knew it would be too easy for him to adjust his grip to something punishing. She had to tell him. Here, now, she decided. Maybe he would feel a little less vulnerable with his hands around her throat.

“How you feel about mages.”

“You don’t.” he said curtly, releasing her so quickly that she wobbled once before she caught her balance. ”You only know how I once felt about mages.”

Semantics, she wanted to accuse, but she knew that wasn’t fair. He had told her…Maker’s breath, he had told her nearly everything, and as horrible as it had been to listen to as he laid bare for her judgment every sin he believed he had ever committed, Essa knew that her anger was misplaced.

“Even I don’t know what I feel now beyond the certainty that most of what I grew up believing was wrong. That our methods for dealing with mages were and are unacceptable.”

“’Unacceptable’?” As if anything could be wrapped up in such a tidy package. “Cullen, I--”

She huffed out a dead breath, took another gulp of air and tried again. “I can’t fault you for who you were, even if I might want to.”

Essa dropped the roll of gauze in his lap and sank back against the wall across from him.

“And I don’t, by the way.”

She slid down to the floor, knees to her chin, sweater stretched down to her ankles.

“I’ve only marginally less blood on my hands anyway,” she added helplessly, wrapping her arms around her legs and staring through the too bright light of the tiny bathroom.

Everything was small and bright in his apartment. White walls, white tile, white trim, white appliances. It was all kept fastidiously clean, of course, and there were small accents of black in the bathroom and the kitchen. What little furniture he had was plain, dark lines and equally somber. The only color in the whole blighted place was Cullen’s blood and Garrett’s Hawke’s sweater.

The place felt like a prison; Essa wanted to burn it down.

“Look,” she said on a sigh. “The Chantry is the poison. They’ve been feeding it to the templars, the mages, and the people for so many years I don’t know who I feel sorrier for.” No. She knew only a consuming and helpless rage. “I understand why you left and that’s to your credit.  I even have a small idea of what that costs you. But Hawke let you live, and that means something else in your favor.”

Cullen finished wrapping his knuckles, snipping the end of the gauze, tying it in place with fingers that fumbled much less than hers for all that he had to do everything mostly with one hand. “You trust him so implicitly?”

“You think I’d be sitting at your feet wearing nothing but the man’s sweater if I didn’t?” Essa stared up at him in disbelief.

“I suppose not.” He reached up to rub the back of his neck with one hand. “I know…”he took a deep breath, held it in as if to ballast the weight of the words to follow. “I know that I have treated mages unfairly in the past. For too many years I was ambivalent to their suffering, believing it served a greater good. I was wrong.”

He had told her this already and she had thrown it back in face, but Essa had believed him then and she believed him now. She just didn’t know how far his repentance went nor what it would mean when she confessed her own crimes against him. Cullen leaned forward, elbows on his knees, until there was too little space between them.

“But you can’t say that you know how I feel about mages,” he continued fervently “Because I don’t know how I feel about mages. I only know that my fear nearly drove me mad, and I have seen what that madness brings.”

He shook his head. “I will be atoning the rest of my life for the one that I can never truly leave behind.”

Essa swallowed once, the sound loud between them. She stared at her feet, bare and dirty between his polished shoes, and said nothing.

“I’m sorry, alright?” He brushed his fingertips against her clenched fists, skin catching on the scabs over her own busted knuckles. “There’s nothing I can do but what I’m already doing.”

“What have you been doing?” she asked without judgment.

“Trying to make amends. Trying to track down the origin of Meredith’s red lyrium.”

Essa’s eyes widened in surprise and Cullen nodded. “It isn’t easy, and well, I sort of lost my cover recently.”

“But I’ve also been trying to earn a meeting with the Lady of Iron, so I’ll focus on that now, leave the lyrium chasing to you and Cassandra.”

“You...you’re trying to meet the leader of the Underground?”

“We can’t make make things better if the mages all remain in hiding,” he said with a short sigh. “You’ve no more reason than she has to believe me, but I am trying. I will be a better man than I was.  Every day. I can’t—“

“I know,” Essa whispered, placing her finger against his lips to stop the urgent rush of his declarations.  “Andraste, forgive me, I know. I’m not angry at you. Not exactly. It’s just the whole fucking situation.”

Rain clattered, thrown loudly against bare windows by a sudden gust of wind. Thunder rolled in the distance.

“Apt, I suppose,” she said with mirthless smile.

She gathered what remained of her courage and reached for his hands. Cullen watched her wary but curious, unresisting as she placed his palms on either side of her throat. When she let go, his fingers curled gently against the nape of her neck, thumbs sweeping up to trail shivers across her jawline.

Essa blinked back tears. “For what it’s worth. I would never have kissed you if I had known you would hate me one day.”

He frowned, eyes dropping so many shades darker in his confusion. “I don’t—“

Essa took a breath, blurted the words before he could break her heart further with the sincerity of his intention.

“I’m a mage.”

His hands tightened once before his grip eased, but Cullen didn’t release her.

“You’re not.” But the denial lacked conviction.

“I am,” Essa continued brutally. “And not the good kind. I’m not the healer or the herbalist, or the arcanist. I’m fire and death and rage. The Fade whispers through my temper and the only way I have found to beat it is literally.”

Cullen stared at her dumbfounded. “That is why Hawke--why you--?”

Essa nodded, swallowed once against his palm. “Partly anyway. I was raised a fighter. It’s what I know. Sex and violence keep me balanced, and no one gets hurt.”

“Sex and--?”

He released her then, nearly knocking her over in his haste to leave. Essa could hear him pacing the too-small cage of his apartment with short, terse strides as she climbed to her feet, straightening her sweater so that she was as covered as she could be.

“How can you say no one gets hurt?” Cullen shouted, spinning back toward the open door. “You’re black and blue, Hawke looked like he had gone ten rounds with someone in his weight class, and--”

He seemed, momentarily at least, more afraid for her than of her, but she knew that wouldn’t last. His tirade stumbled to a halt, as if he were only just catching up to everything she had said.

“You’re a mage.”

The grim certainty in his face threatened to break her. Essa nodded.

“Maker, forgive us both.”

She didn’t see him move. Her eyes were too blurred with tears that she refused to let fall, and the quiet sound of the front door opening was drowned out by the low approach of the storm. When the door slammed shut behind him, the harsh finality traveled sharply down Essa’s spine dragging with it the long buried memory of another rejection.

“I understand.”

But now, as then, there was no one to hear her.


End file.
